


Single Dads Club

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canonical Character Death, Clark Kent thinks Bruce Wayne is the bees knees, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason Todd is Robin, Parental Jim "Chief" Hopper, This forced its way out of me like a chestburster, no proofreading we typo like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Clark is the one who put them in touch. The odd events and strange reports coming out of the area caught his attention, and when he found out what was at the center of them and the interpersonal trouble at the heart of it all, he thought it best to reach out to an expert.Not that Bruce in any way believes heisan expert. In fact, the longer he has kids, the more he realizes he’s not. But when Clark tells him that he’s met this guy who’s a single dad, just got full custody of his kid, and is, frankly, floundering pretty hard, Bruce remembers how much having Alfred to talk to had helped him, so he reluctantly allows Clark to give this guy his number.





	1. Bruce

Clark is the one who put them in touch. The odd events and strange reports coming out of the area caught his attention, and when he found out what was at the center of them and the interpersonal trouble at the heart of it all, he thought it best to reach out to an expert.

Not that Bruce in any way believes he _is_ an expert. In fact, the longer he has kids, the more he realizes he’s not. But when Clark tells him that he’s met this guy who’s a single dad, just got full custody of his kid, and is, frankly, floundering pretty hard, Bruce remembers how much having Alfred to talk to had helped him, so he reluctantly allows Clark to give this guy his number.

They don’t really talk on the phone. The other guy is pretty gruff, and Bruce likes people in front of him so he can read their body language. But even over the phone, he can tell this guy is stressed out. Seems he got his kid right as puberty and teen rebellion were kicking in, and boy does Bruce know how that goes. Still, it’s a bit of an out-of-body experience when Bruce offers to fly out and meet this guy for coffee and a chat, because he can already tell no way will the other guy ever step foot in Gotham.

“No trouble, I’m in the area,” Bruce lies.

SUCH a lie. There is literally nothing “in the area” of Hawkins, Indiana.

He regrets it the entire drive over. (Can’t fly the private jet, because it’s such a backwoods town that they don’t even have their own airport. Bruce is appalled.) He regrets it when he walks into the town’s one diner and every head swivels to take in him and what he had thought was a subtle and tasteful outfit. (Seems Hawkins doesn’t have much call for chinos and loafers.) He regrets it when his contact—the bearded head of the local law with a beer gut and a ketchup stain on his lapel—eyes Bruce doubtfully before shaking his hand. He definitely regrets it when he has to slide into a booth that squeaks and groans as he scoots across the seat.

Bruce slips into Brucie, because there hasn’t been awkward spot that persona hasn’t gotten him out of yet. Go figure now would be the first time. As unimpressed as Hopper (what kind of podunk name is that, even?) is with Bruce, he seems even more unimpressed with Brucie.

They have coffee. It isn’t bad. It isn't good, either. Hopper notices Bruce set down his mug and not pick it up again. He smirks. Bruce feels judged and doesn’t like it.

Bruce _almost_ chalks the afternoon up to a waste of time and excuses himself, but then a group of kids ride by the window on their bikes. They’re loud and obnoxious, all talking over each other and the clatter of the plastic and metal tied to their spokes. Bruce would have paid them no more than a glance, except the sheriff looked out the window, too.

“Which one is yours?” Bruce asks. He shrugs slightly when Hopper gave him a narrow, surprised look, but waits rather than repeat the question.

“That one.” Hopper points to one of the girls, a curly-headed tween with apple cheeks and skinned knees. “Jane.”

Almost as if she hears her name, the girl’s head turns toward the window. When she sees Hopper, she lifts her hand and waves with a small, secret smile before pedaling off with her friends.

“Cute kid,” Bruce says, as he knows you’re supposed to. It’s true, too. And whatever problems they’re having, it hadn’t taken the World’s Greatest Detective for Bruce to see the affection and the guardedness in Jane’s expression. Or to mark Hopper’s small sigh as he looked down at his mug.

“Yeah. She’s a great kid. Smart as a whip, too.”

Bruce waited in silence for a beat, then pulled out his wallet and placed two photos in front of Hopper. “That’s Dick,” he says, tapping the first photo before pointing to the next. “And that’s Jason.”

“Cute kids,” Hopper echoes. “They have your eyes.”

When Bruce shakes his head, Hopper lifts an eyebrow.

“Adopted,” Bruce explains. “Dick when he was ten. Jason when he was fourteen.”

Something about that seems to resonate with Hopper, because he shifts in his booth and gives Bruce his full attention. So Bruce tells him. Not everything, of course. But he tells him about taking in Dick when his parents died, about learning to be a dad for the first time, about the growing pains, about the good times, but also the fights that led to Dick leaving. He tells him about Jason, about how he felt like a new parent all over again with this kid who was so different from Dick, about making new and worse and better mistakes.

Bruce doesn’t get the feeling that Hopper gives him his whole story either, but the crotchety sheriff does open up more by the end. Hopper tells him about Jane coming to live with him, about long hours and broken promises, about school dances and TV nights.

By the end, they... well, they aren’t friends. But they aren’t Bruce Wayne of Gotham and Jim Hopper of Hawkins anymore. They’re just two dads, talking about their kids. When Bruce stands up to leave, he shakes Jim’s hand again and gives him his card.

“It’s going to get harder,” he warns Jim. “Harder, but better, too. Call anytime.”

Hopper lifts the card with a rueful smile, then tucks it into his stained pocket. “Thanks. And thanks for coming all the way out here. And, uh, Bruce?”

Bruce pauses on his way to the door and half-turns with a lifted brow.

“Your boys. I know you’re going through some things with them right now, but if they’re half as smart as you make them out to be, they know you’re trying your best. It’ll be alright.”

Bruce gives Jim a wistful smile. “I hope so.”


	2. Hopper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's when he's gathering up the old newspapers she used to cover the grass, though, that he notices the human interest piece tucked deep into the celebrity section, an aside from the larger world he tries to ignore._   
>  __  
>  **Adopted Son of Gotham Billionaire Killed Abroad**   
>  _And though the photo is in dotted newspaper monochrome and half-covered in streaked red paint, Hopper knows that the eyes of the boy looking out at him are blue as the sky. Or were._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not supposed to be more than an unedited one-shot. But Evrymeeveryyou was horrible/wonderful commenter and noted that Hopper has already lost a child, so what would that mean for his relationship with Bruce after Jason's death, and I couldn't let it go.
> 
> Is it great? No. But the thought hath now been yote from my brain. I am free.
> 
> (Also, can I please gripe at my past self for writing this fic in present tense? What in the world. I keep defaulting back to past tense and It Is A Trial.)

Hopper almost doesn't find out. Hawkins, small though it is, is enough to keep his attention. He hears things, snippets in passing about Russians and trade wars and the latest weirdness out of the big cities, but he doesn't pay them much mind. Hopper's plate is full with his town and his family, and he hopes that if he keeps his attention off the outside world, it'll refrain from tracking muddy bootprints through his life again.

Not hearing from Bruce Wayne doesn't raise a flag either. It isn't like they talked on the phone every night before bed. Since Bruce had stopped by Hawkins, Hopper had called him only once, flustered by a big fight he'd had with Jane. Bruce had called him once or twice more to check in, a generous gesture from a man who earned more per minute than Hopper saw in a year. So when the communication falls silent, Hopper doesn't give it a thought.

It's Jane's fault he finds out anything at all. She'd gotten it into her head that his house needed sprucing and had decided to experiment with his old chairs from the kitchen and a can of spray paint. The result is a pair of bright red, unevenly coated chairs with bald patches at the seams where the wood still peeks through, and Hopper loves them. It's when he's gathering up the old newspapers she used to cover the grass, though, that he notices the human interest piece tucked deep into the celebrity section, an aside from the larger world he tries to ignore.

_Adopted Son of Gotham Billionaire Killed Abroad_

And though the photo is in dotted newspaper monochrome and half-covered in streaked red paint, Hopper knows that the eyes of the boy looking out at him are blue as the sky. Or were.

He doesn't call, at least not right away. When he does, Bruce isn't the one who answers. Instead, an older man, who introduces himself as Alfred Pennyworth the butler, explains that Master Wayne is unavailable. Hopper is relieved. He doesn't know what he would say to Bruce anyways. And yet, instead of simply apologizing and letting Alfred hang up the phone, Hopper fumbles his way through condolences and apologies for being so late.

Then he hears himself say, "I've got a cabin in the woods. It's nothing to look at, but I head up a couple times a year to do some fishing. Headed up there next week, in fact—" he would have to remember to tell the boys at the station about this surprise and completely unplanned vacation "—and wanted to see if Bruce would be interested in getting out of the big city for a spell. Like I said, it's not to the level he'd be used to, more of a shack, really, but the woods are nice this time of year."

There's silence on the other end of the line, and then the butler says, "Thank you for the offer, Chief... Hopper, was it? I'm sure Master Wayne would be pleased to join you. Please send along the location and a list of any equipment he should bring, at your convenience."

Hopper makes a noise, flustered by the easy agreement. "Uh, are you sure you don't want to run that by—"

"He'll be there, sir." Alfred cuts him off with a voice as firm and implacable as the hills, the unspoken threat to Bruce's well-being should he try to fight the decision evident in every syllable. Hopper isn't sure what role a butler really had in today's day and age, but even without meeting the man, he wouldn't have bet against the old servant.

Still, he can't help the jolt of surprise when, one week and two days later, a small truck with all-terrain wheels and shiny, untouched rims rolls up the gravel path in front of his cabin. Hopper sets down his book on the porch swing and goes to meet Bruce.

He looks rough. Not as rough as Hopper had, once upon a time, but still a far cry from the suave and confident city slicker who had shared a cup of coffee with Hopper not even a year ago. Bruce has carefully dressed down in a t-shirt, khakis, and loafers, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder as he pulls it from the passenger seat. Hopper thinks he might have gone a little grayer at the temples, but more noticeable is the dark circles under his eyes and the full beard covering his jaw and crawling down his neck in thick, black stubble.

"I didn't know you city boys could grow beards," Hopper jokes before reaching out and clasping Bruce's hand. "Bruce. Thanks for comin' out."

"I wasn't given much of a choice," Bruce admits drily, but his shake is warm and friendly before he drops Hopper's hand. "Alfred can be very... persuasive. Thanks for having me."

Hopper helps Bruce unload his fishing equipment—all new, with tacky spots where the adhesive price tags had recently been removed, he notices—and carry it inside. And for a while, Hopper wonders if he's misjudged Bruce. Sure, what happened was a tragedy, and knowing how much Bruce loves his kids, Hopper knows he must be grieving, but Bruce seems... fine. Even quieter than normal, sure, and less at ease, but as Hopper shows him where to settle in, he makes small talk. He smiles. He even cracks a joke or two.

Then again, Hopper doesn't consider himself a particularly smart man, but he's not a dumb one either. He notices the way Bruce tenses every time he brings up Jane or comes close to mentioning the boys. He doesn't miss the ugly bruise beneath Bruce's beard or the ginger way he moves. So maybe Hopper's time most days is spent chasing down high school delinquents and drunks with pop rockets. He's still in law enforcement, trained in sniffing out deception, and the particular flavor of Bruce Wayne's easy manner strikes him as wrong.

Hopper waits a full day, until they're sitting in front of the fire the following night with bellies full of charbroiled fish and beers in their hands.

"Sorry to hear about your boy," Hopper says. He keeps his eyes on the fire.

Bruce laughs. Hopper's seem some things in his day, faced off with some real inhuman nasties, but that sound makes his skin crawl a bit. It's low and dark and vicious, and that would be enough, but it's also too familiar. He risks a look over

"I wondered if that was why you called me out here." Bruce takes a deep swig of his beer, mouth twisting angrily. "I should've known."

Hopper shrugs. "Like I told your Pennyworth fellow, I thought you could use a break from the city. But if you want to talk about it, we can."

"Talk," Bruce scoffs. "Everyone wants to talk. Talk about what happened. Talk about my loss. Talk about my _feelings_. Because _talking_ will bring my son back. _Talking_ will pull him out of the ground."

"Bruce—"

"No." Bruce levels his bottle at Hopper, blue eyes blazing dry and red. "There is nothing you can say. _Nothing_. You have no idea what it's like."

Hopper is afraid that Bruce is going to stand and leave on the spot, but instead, he leans back in his chair and takes another deep swig of Hopper's cheap convenience store beer. Hopper considers letting it go. He and Bruce aren't close, the man has his own support system back in Gotham, and maybe all Hopper can really give him is a peaceful weekend in the woods. But he thinks of that first day in the diner, when this rich city boy flew all the way out to help a stranger he'd never met. And he thinks of all the time he wasted in Hawkins before finding Jane, how he'd resigned himself to dying slowly without anyone noticing.

Hopper shifts in his chair, sets down his beer, and pulls his wallet from his back pocket. From the inside pocket, he lifts a small photo, carefully creased down the middle, and offers it to Bruce.

"That's Sara," Hopper says quietly, as Bruce studies the photo. The Hopper there looks younger, a bright smile on his clean-shaven face as he hugs a young girl. Her wispy blonde pigtails swing on either side of her head. Her eyes are as wide and blue as the sky.

Bruce doesn't speak for a long while, then asks, "What happened?" He's subdued, the rage from earlier banked and smoldering under this fresh wave of misery.

"Cancer." Even now, just speaking the word coats Hopper's mouth in ash. "She was seven."

He looks down at his hands, at the tan line on his left hand that's all but faded away now. "I don't talk about her. Ever. To anyone. Probably should have, though. Probably would've lost a lot less if I had."

Hopper shakes his head, takes the photo back from Bruce and lovingly runs his thumb over the fading face of his little girl. "So no. I don't know. I'm not you. But I'm closer than anyone else you've got. And I know how bad it can get."

Somehow, Hopper manages a chuckle as he sits back in his seat. "You think I'm a mess now, you should've seen me a few years ago. I was killing myself slowly, and everyone saw it but me. I didn't have what you have."

Bruce shifts his weight, leaning forward with his elbow on one knee. "If you think my money—"

Hopper cuts off the menacing growl with a wave of his hand. "When Sara—when it happened, I didn't have anybody. My wife'd already left me. We didn't have any other kids. I had a couple buddies, but they didn't get it. But you, you've got people."

He tips his bottle in Bruce's direction, then takes a swig before saying, "Your boy Dick. Your guy Alfred. Even that reporter, the one who gave me your number. Talks about you like you walk on water, what's his name. Kevin or whoever. You've got people, Bruce. You've got another kid to straighten yourself out for."

Bruce settles back, looks away, shakes his head slowly. "Dick doesn't need me. He's a man now, and he's been... he's been clear he doesn't need me."

"He's your kid. He'll always need you. He just lost his brother." Hopper's lips quirks in a small smile, one he hopes is reassuring. "I'm not saying it'll be simple. Or that we've got to have some, I don't know, Dr. Laura heart to heart here. Just that I've been there, so maybe you should learn from _my_ experience for once. Alright?"

Bruce huffs a sharp breath of air out his nose in something almost resembling a surrender or a laugh. "Alright."

"Great." Hopper sets his drink down and rocks to his feet. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Bruce asks as he reluctantly follows.

"Night fishing. You think I didn't hear you last night, walking around at all hours? You've got the worst insomnia of anyone I've ever seen. If you're gonna be up, we might as well get tomorrow's dinner."

Bruce snorts again, but doesn't argue. It's only as they're headed toward the door that he says, "Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"What you said..."

"Yeah?"

Bruce eyes Hopper out of the corner of his vision, his face half lit by the rising moon framed in the front window. "She was your _only_ child?"

Hopper should feel panicky, he supposed, slipping up like that. But he only chuckled and pushed the front door open. "One heartfelt conversation at a time, alright, Bruce?"

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. I just like the idea of Bruce still feeling way underprepared for this parenting thing but also helping out other flailing dudes in the same situation. Also, Clark thinks Bruce is so good at it, because he's a good good supportive bro. Also also, it's the 80s, so the other Batkids aren't a thing yet.
> 
> Originally on Tumblr, but not a prompt, so not part of that collection: https://lurkinglurkerwholurks.tumblr.com/post/176673681997/ive-been-thinking-about-this-a-lot-and-i-think


End file.
